Letter 46: (The new Archbishop seems not to have been satisfied with the reasons given in Gregory's last letter; so the latter writes again.) How can any affairs of yours be mere grape-gleanings to me, O dear and sacred friend? What a word has escaped the fence of your teeth, or how could you dare to say such a thing, if I too may be somewhat daring? How c...

How could your affairs ever be mere scraps to me, my dear and sacred friend? What a thing to say! How could you dare write such a thing — if I too may be a little daring? How could your mind form it, your ink write it, your paper receive it — you, of all people, with your education and Athens and all your learning! You nearly drive me to write a tragedy with that letter. Don't you know me? Don't you know yourself — you, the eye of the world, the great voice and trumpet and palace of learning? Your affairs, trifles to Gregory? Then what on earth could anyone admire, if Gregory doesn't admire you? There is one spring among the seasons, one sun among the stars, one heaven that embraces all — and your voice is unique among all voices, if I'm any judge of these things and not blinded by affection (and I don't think I am). But if you're blaming me for not valuing you according to your full worth, then you'd have to blame all of humanity, because no one has or ever will appreciate you enough — unless it's you yourself and your own eloquence, if it were possible to praise oneself and if such were our custom. Are you upset that I'm acting like a philosopher? Let me say it: this, and this alone, is higher even than your conversation.

Epistle 46. To Basil. (The new Archbishop seems not to have been satisfied with the reasons given in Gregory's last letter; so the latter writes again.) How can any affairs of yours be mere grape-gleanings to me, O dear and sacred friend? What a word has escaped the fence of your teeth, or how could you dare to say such a thing, if I too may be somewhat daring? How could your mind set it going, or your ink write it, or your paper receive it, O lectures and Athens and virtues and literary labours! You almost make me write a tragedy by what you have written. Do you not know me or yourself, you eye of the world, and great voice and trumpet and palace of learning? Your affairs trifles to Gregory? What then on earth could any one admire, if Gregory admire not you? There is one spring among the seasons, one sun among the stars, and one heaven that embraces all things; and so your voice is unique among all things, if I am capable of judging such things, and not deceived by my affection — and this I do not think to be the case. But if it is because I do not value you according to your worth that you blame me, you must also blame all mankind; for no one else has or will sufficiently admire you, unless it be yourself, and your own eloquence, at least if it were possible to praise oneself, and if such were the custom of our speech. But if you are accusing me of despising you, why not rather of being mad? Or are you vexed because I am acting like a philosopher? Give me leave to say that this and this alone is higher than even your conversation.